


Saying Her Name

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-17
Updated: 2008-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-14 13:35:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13591140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: If there is anything you don't want to hear him say, it's that.





	Saying Her Name

**Author's Note:**

> Second-person vignette. _EOR_ , **book universe**. Not naming the narrator because that takes the fun out of working out who they are.
> 
> Because I felt like being a bitch to this character. *evil grin*
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine. Only my extrapolation/guess.

As you bring him into the room, he looks at you with something akin to surprise, though really, he can't have been that unobservant. Surely he knows what you've been playing at the past few months, and you do your best to offer him the demurest smile you can manage as you bring your fingers to his face. _God, he's handsome_ , you think as you run them down his neck to his shoulder then his chest, and you move ever closer, aiming for a kiss.

He rears his head back a little, tells you to stop, says he had no idea you'd planned this. You lift your chin defiantly and raise a brow, leaning in to touch your chest to his as you fix him with this well-practised and very effective posture and expression. You tell him he just needs to move on already, forget her, and what better way to do that than with you?

His eyes dart rapidly back and forth, as if to take in your sleek hair, your shining eyes, your flawless skin; you are everything she is not and never will be, and you're damned proud of it. When you reach forward and try that kiss again he doesn't stop you.

You rather enjoy divesting him of his knit shirt, his khaki pants, and when your fingers reach his boxers and push them down he finally seems to stop resisting. Even still, when he undresses you it's clumsy; when he caresses you it's tentative; when he grasps your hips it's almost as if his hands are expecting a completely foreign topology.

You've got protection ready and waiting—because while you want him, you're not stupid enough to saddle yourself with a _(you shudder)_ baby or worse just to get him—and once that's in place you pull him into position over you and capture his mouth again with a kiss. Your fingers delight in raking over his skin, from the fine hair on his chest, then further down to where it darkens and thickens. He gasps, undoubtedly at your directness as you take him in hand and lead him into you.

It's a little mechanical at first until you really get going; once you do, the tiger you knew was in there is finally unleashed, and he's pounding into you with breathtaking passion. You crumple the fine linen of the bed sheets between your clenched fingers and your palm, and you bite your lip to keep from crying out. He's grunting, muttering, panting, moaning, shuddering, until at last you feel him come. That you did not is a small sacrifice, but you figure you have time; now that you've gotten him into your bed once, getting him back in will be a _fait accompli_.

He rolls off of you, and after disposing of the johnny, he pulls the sheet up over himself and almost immediately he falls to sleep.

You're not disappointed, exactly, because you got what you wanted and the sex was fantastic, but you expected something… _more_. You realise he has not once initiated a kiss; as you curl up to his back it's clear he is not inclined to turn over and hold you or even touch you. You figure these little moments of tenderness will come in time.

But there's something else, something more significant, that you realise as you lie there in the dark, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, thinking back over every moment of your tryst. It was not your name he called out in the throes of passion.

No. You distinctly heard him say _hers_.

 _Bridget_.

Well. This is not insurmountable, you think as you caress his bare upper arm. Now that you have your claws in him, you'll just have to sink them in a little more firmly.

You smile, satisfied, as you drift off to sleep, even now planning your way deeper into his heart and his life.

_The end._

**Author's Note:**

> Between Rebecca's insecure rambling to Mark in the garden in Gloucester the morning after (which Bridget overhears), and Mark's later admission to Bridget about sleeping with Rebecca "that night" in Gloucester ("I mean one's only human. I was a guest. It seemed only polite…. As Shazzer says, men have these desires eating away at them all the time…. She just kept inviting me to things: dinner parties, children's parties with barnyard animals, holidays—") but then turns serious and says, "Every time… every time I hoped you'd be there. And that night in Gloucestershire, **knowing you were fifty feet away** " (emphasis mine)—well. It's not hard to imagine a scenario like the above taking place. :} "Ha ha!" (in manner of Nelson from "The Simpsons").


End file.
